How It Is
by Pompey
Summary: After the night John was having, it was too much to ask of him to lie dying on a dirty kerb staring up at Anderson and Donovan. (answer to prompt 13 from 2013's Watson's Woes July challenge.)


Title: How It Is

Universe: BBC

Summary: After the night John was having, it was too much to ask of him to lie dying on a dirty kerb staring up at Anderson and Donovan.

It was annoying when John lost track of Sherlock somewhere around the third intersection, and realized the battery on his mobile was dead. Tripping over the rubbish in the alleyway he'd ducked down, trying for a shortcut, was both annoying and disgusting. The run-in with those chavs had been annoying and alarming, especially when they got away with his wallet and mobile. Then the knife plunged into him and things went southward fast.

John struggled out of the alleyway, digging his palms into his midsection. He had to get into the light. If he collapsed in the dark he wouldn't be found until morning, at the soonest, and by then he'd be dead. The amount of blood oozing around his fingers told him that. He wished he could curse out Sherlock for his present condition but he knew better than that. He had chosen to go after Sherlock, had chosen to take a shortcut down the alley. Of course, if Sherlock hadn't run down the battery on his phone, or at least had returned it to him in time to recharge it like a normal person, he might have been able to text Sherlock when he first lost track of the detective. On the other hand, Sherlock could text him to his sociopathic heart's content now and it wouldn't do any good.

Too bad the closest thing to a police phone box left in London was the set from Doctor Who. If they even filmed that show in London. Cardiff, wasn't it? Or was that just where it was set in half the time? He couldn't remember. _You keep it together, John Watson, and you do it now! Forget the telly and focus. You've been through worse. You can go a couple more meters._

The Yard loomed ahead. He let out a puff of air too shallow to be a sigh of relief. John knew he'd been close but he hadn't realized how close. Maybe the night was looking up. At least if he collapsed and died here they'd find his body that much faster.

There. A man coming out of the main building. Thank God. He could get help. He wasn't going to die, at least not alone. He could see the man now, it was –  
Anderson. Of course it was Anderson. Why not? Par for the course, as it were. Really, with his luck tonight, the only thing he should be surprised at was that he was surprised in the first place.

"Doctor Watson?" Anderson's voice, though faint and wavering like a bad radio signal, was clearly annoyed. "What are you – wait, are you drunk?"

Slowly John shook his head. "Call . . . an ambulance," he mumbled and then the world shifted suddenly and he couldn't catch himself, couldn't take his hands away because that would release the pressure and he'd bleed out in minutes –

His head jerked painfully. There was icy cold seeping through the back of his jeans and even through his poor abused jacket. His view had spun around and turned upside down. Instead of staring at the Yard's front sign, he was staring up at the edge of it and at the night sky and –

Anderson's face hovering over his, disconcertingly close to his. "Doctor? What happened?"

"Stabbed." John let his eyes fall shut. He didn't hate Anderson the way Sherlock did but he had no particular love for him either. And it was too much to ask of him to lie dying on a dirty kerb staring at that man staring back at him.

Hands were pulling at his, tugging them away from the wound. "No!" John gasped out. "Keep – the pressure – "

"All right, all right." Clearly it was delirium from blood loss but John would swear Anderson was trying to sound soothing. "How deep is it?"

He wasn't entirely sure, truth be told. The one stroke of luck he'd had was that the blade had been partially deflected off the zipper before slicing through leather and cotton and flesh. It had pierced him on an angle rather than plunging straight in. If not for that, he might be dead already. Which reminded him . . .

"Ambulance?"

"Don't worry, Sally's on it."

_Sally? Oh. Right. Donovan_. Now that he was thinking about it, John could hear her voice in the background. The little wifey must be out of town again. No matter. His life wouldn't be further jeopardized while Anderson nattered away. Maybe he could relax a little now, not have to hang on quite so hard. The pain was starting to fade a little, finally . . .

"John!"

Something flicked his face and it hurt. He flinched and turned away. Damn. The pain from the wound was back and it was hard to breathe. Something was pushing him down, hard.

"Sorry," he heard a female voice say, "but you have to stay awake. Can you open your eyes?"

He tried and found he could. Now it was Donovan's face taking up his field of vision. "The ambulance is on the way. And I texted the freak for you."

"Thanks," he croaked. That was unexpectedly nice of her. He knew all too well it was for solely for his benefit. He also knew, without asking, that Donovan didn't think Sherlock would pay her text any mind. And he further knew she was wrong but he would never be able to convince her of that.

His cheeks were being hit again. He hadn't remembered closing his eyes but from the way Donovan was slapping at his cheeks, he had and it worried her.

"Mmph?" John managed.

"You said something about 'wrong,'" she prompted.

He shook his slowly. "N'er mind." His hands were going numb. Not cold, but numb. That . . . was bad. He tried to move his hands but there were trapped, pinned in place. John squinted. Anderson was holding them in place.

No, wait.

Anderson had his own hands over John's, using the weight of his entire upper body to compress the wound. That's why breathing was so difficult. Each inhalation fought against the stubborn pressure Anderson was applying to his diaphragm. He squirmed a little, trying to get a little more comfortable, to no avail.

"John, stop moving," Anderson ordered. "You'll do yourself more harm."

He hated his weakness and he hated even more showing it to these two but he couldn't help himself. "Hurts," he gasped. "And . . . can't breathe."

Anderson looked grim and Donovan moved away. John didn't blame her. She was trained for crime, not for the uncomfortable intimacy and vulnerability that came with treatment serious medical conditions. And he had already shown his allegiance to someone she hated. No doubt Anderson would have moved away too had John's life not literally been in his hands.

Something heavy and warm was draped over his legs. He had time to register that before Donovan returned to his field of vision, looking different somehow but he couldn't put his finger on it. She gently gasped his head at the jaw and tilted it back, keeping his airway straight and open. It helped, a little. "Ambulance is coming," she might have said but it was hard to hear through the muffled roar in his ears. John could barely hear the wail of the sirens until they were practically at the kerb.

Voices bombarded him but he couldn't make out the words. It might have been Anderson and Donovan but he couldn't make that out either. His vision had gone oddly fuzzy, like an ancient video tape watched far too many times. Plus he was freezing and he couldn't breathe and he hurt, he _hurt _. . .

Multiple hands grabbed him and there was a painful lurch that jarred every cell of his body. Then he was flying upward and yanked down again. The pressure on his stomach vanished for a merciful second only to reappear again. The warm thing on his legs went away and did not return. From his position on the stretcher, John saw Donovan pulling her coat back on. He knew there was something significant about that but his mind wasn't up to sorting it all out just then. Besides, the emergency med techs were distracting him, pestering him with stupid questions and not letting him drift off.

Suddenly the techs started squawking like a disturbed flock of chickens. John squinted and made out a figure in a swirling black coat trying to enter the ambulance. Ah. That explained it. He smiled a little, or thought he did. Every body part felt a bit detached and far away so it was hard to tell. Then those piercing eyes were boring into his and Sherlock was seizing his hand in a surprisingly warm grasp.

"I got Donovan's text a full half minute before Mycroft's," John thought he heard Sherlock say. "He'll have a full surgical team ready for you at the hospital."

John didn't have the strength to acknowledge that. The disconnected feeling grew stronger and he knew his blood pressure was bottoming out. That was the last thing he knew until he woke up from surgery.

* * *

"Hi."

John turned away from the mind-numbing daytime telly he'd been only half watching. "Hi," he replied, more from reflex than hospitality. On a list of all the people John thought might come to see him while he as in the hospital, Anderson would have been at the bottom. Right next to Donovan, actually. To further confuse things, this visit was obviously social one because John had already given his statement about the stabbing to Lestrade, and if they needed any additional information, Anderson wouldn't be hovering in the doorway, looking so uncertain and out of place.

"Is this a bad time?"

"No, it's fine," answered John automatically. Then, to reassure the Yarder a little, he added, "Sherlock shouldn't be back for a couple of minutes yet."

Anderson's eyebrows shot up. "He's visited you?"

"He hasn't left since we got here," John answered pointedly. "It took me until now to convince him I'd be fine if he left me alone for five minutes."

To give the Anderson some credit, he got it immediately and took a couple steps closer. "Oh. Right. Well, that's . . . "

"Unexpected?" Good manners couldn't keep all the bitterness out of his tone, and frankly, John wasn't sure that he wanted to hide all the bitterness.

Anderson paused. "That too. Anyway. You're looking better." He offered a half smile.

John returned it. "I'm feeling a lot better. Got treatment quickly and that always helps a lot. Can be, um, lifesaving, really. So." Then it was his turn to pause. "Thank you."  
"Of course." The Yarder shrugged in a matter-of-fact sort of way. "That's what we do."

John shook his head slightly, sure that he wasn't being understood, or at least the magnitude wasn't being understood. "No, I mean . . . you and Donovan probably saved my life. You know. Literally. And - "

"Dr. Watson," Anderson interrupted, not unkindly, "I know. I already know that. Sally knows it too. Trust me, we are both well aware you could've died. I've had some nightmares about that night, to be honest. But you have to understand: we're police officers. Helping people is what we do. Sometimes that means responding to noise complaints and sometimes that means literally saving lives. You're a doctor. You understand how it is."

"Um. Yeah. I know." The thing is, John did know. It was just odd to know he had something in common with Anderson and Donovan. Odd, but not in a bad way. Actually, it was probably the best thing to come out of the entire ordeal.

"Anyway." Anderson shrugged a little bit and moved back half a step. "Just wanted to see how you were doing and send you best wishes from the Yard. But, um, I'll let you get some rest."

"Thanks," John said again. "And . . . thank you."


End file.
